


keep your soul (like a secret in your throat)

by Neelh



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dark Doctor (Doctor Who), Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Genocide, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh/pseuds/Neelh
Summary: The Doctor isn't a good person, and she has far, far too many secrets.Despite that, or, perhaps, because of it, Yaz loves her.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	keep your soul (like a secret in your throat)

**Author's Note:**

> this is like. an inch away from being thasmin
> 
> i managed to abstain from writing about the doctor with the Most gay energy in recent history for, like, two years. i deserve. something for that. but, yeah. she just Had to start getting all edgy and i'm a Sucker for not-humans with emotional issues who are very capable of murdering me, and that is why the title is from 'vampires will never hurt you' by mcr

The TARDIS’s interior glows gold. Actually, maybe it’s amber. She’s pretty good at colour differences, even when nobody else would notice them, but this is kind of like a general thing. A generic-ish explanation. It’s a generalisation! Yeah, that’s it!

When the TARDIS is gold or amber or whatever colour it wants to be on the warmer side of the spectrum – but not red! Never really past persimmon-y-cinnamon-y, or, a few times, a nice shade of peach – it just feels more like home. Well, it always feels like home. It _is_ home. It’s just, it feels nicer and cosier when it’s like that.

There have been times, especially when she was younger, where the inside of the TARDIS has been silver or white. Cold, minimalistic, and yet still the Doctor’s. Still her little blue box. Still the ship she stole away on that long-ago fateful day. Still her oldest companion; still the only one who hasn’t yet left her.

When the TARDIS is dark, so is the Doctor’s heart. She can’t help but feel like it should now be ebony black, polished to the point where she could stare at the wall and see her own monstrous face.

Hey, did you know that ebony wood mostly comes from the same trees persimmons do? Cinnamon’s a different tree, though. Still wood!

“I’m giving up.”

At Yaz’s announcement, the Doctor tears her eyes from the interlocking circles and hexagons on the wall to look at her. Her legs are crossed in front of her, unlike how the Doctor’s tucked her own up to brush against her chest, and her expression is kind of weirdly impassive.

“Do… Do you want me to drop you off, after all?” the Doctor asks. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you, to be honest. We’ll be back in a jiffy!”

Before she can stand up, though, Yaz has grabbed her coat sleeve, tugging her gently back down to the floor, saying, “No, that’s not what I meant!”

The Doctor settles down once more, but she can’t help but feel her shoulders stiffen. She knows Yaz isn’t going to hurt her; at least, not physically, and hopefully not _intentionally_. Still, she kind of has the same gut feeling as she did when she watched those uncountable people die.

She lost count of the amount of deaths that she’s to blame for. She looks back at the wall and imagines her face; a ghostly reflection in the darkness.

“I meant that I’m giving up on beating around the bush with this,” Yaz explains. “You’ve got all these things you’re hiding, and it’s just weighing you down. You need to talk about it.”

“It’ll weigh me down anyway,” she replies. “You don’t deserve to hear them.”

Yaz is quiet for a long moment; long enough that the Doctor turns to look at her again. At her parted mouth, and her wide eyes, and the golden shimmer against her skin.

“Is that how little you think of me?” she asks.

The Doctor shakes her head. “No! I mean, I don’t think you _should_ know these things; these secrets. They’ll hurt you.”

“Honestly, right now, it’s hurting me more that you don’t seem to trust me enough to know that I can take it,” says Yaz. “All these things I’ve done since you’ve known me! The Punjab; the massive spiders; the weird plant monsters; haven’t I proved myself? What else do I need to do to get you to trust me?”

“I _do_ trust you,” the Doctor replies, but it sounds false even as she says it.

Yaz reaches out to touch the Doctor’s hand, resting on her knee. “Then why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you let me help you?”

“I don’t _need_ help!”

There’s a sharp noise, like the crack of a whip, and the Doctor finds that the palmar side of her fingers have started to sting. She looks at it, then looks down, because she’s standing now. She’s standing over Yaz, whose legs have unfolded. She’s standing over Yaz, who is rubbing the back of her hand.

She’s standing over Yaz, who watches her with a blend of betrayal and anger.

A few months ago, Yaz was talking about her job, and how she’s had to intervene in a good portion of domestic violence cases. About how it’s usually depicted as men hurting women, but it’s also women hurting men, and men hurting men, and women hurting women, because humans are only really getting started on working outside that weird binary.

About how the cycle perpetuates, so the victims stay with the abuser instead of calling the police. Terms like _love-bombing_ , where the abuser will shower their partner with affection and gifts and grand gestures. Explanations of the tears shed, that might be genuine, but may as well be false. The apologies given and then ignored, because they just couldn’t stop themself from lashing out again.

The Doctor doesn’t want to be one of those people. She probably is, to be honest, but she doesn’t want to be.

“I’ll take you home,” she says, quietly. She’d call it a _murmur_ , but that’s got connotations. Connotations like intimacy, or calming someone. Connotations that shouldn’t apply here. “I’ll drop you off beck in Sheffield.”

Yaz gets to her feet, shaking out her hand. The Doctor’s fingers still sting.

She says, “No. Not until we’ve sorted this out. Maybe not even then.”

“You need to go home,” the Doctor replies, trying to be firm without sounding angry and most likely failing horribly.

“And you need to go to therapy, but you’re not doing that, either, are you?”

There’s a bit of an awkward pause, where one of them’s waiting for the other to say something and, ultimately, nothing is actually said.

Yaz breaks the silence. “Space therapy exists, right?”

The Doctor nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it does. It’s just…” She shrugs, but Yaz doesn’t try to speak. She just watches the Doctor with her patient stare. “I don’t think it’d be much help, is all.”

She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but it isn’t for Yaz’s lips to purse, before she starts giggling.

“What’s so funny?” the Doctor demands, as though Yaz’s laughter isn’t making her smile, too. “I just implied that I might, _possibly_ , have trauma!”

Yaz shakes her head; giggles dying down to a beautiful smile. “It’s just funny, is all. That’s the same reason why I didn’t go, to begin with.”

And everything stops.

Yasmin Khan. Beautiful, brilliant, Yasmin Khan, had needed therapy?

The Doctor should have noticed. Has she had her head stuck up so far up her own arse that she’s not realised that her friend has been hurt so deeply? And what was it that caused her such pain? What terrifying experience pushed her over the brink? Which alien; which human?

Was it the Doctor?

It can’t have been; Yaz hasn’t left her since she’d seen her at her worst. Like, not even for a quickie counselling session on the phone. They can do that, nowadays, right?

But, no, the Doctor’s been a monster for far longer than that. She’d brought down that Skithra ship and everyone aboard, save for herself, Yaz, and Nikola Tesla. Yaz had seen and aided in the killing of a fleet of aliens. Like, that probably left her with some kind of issues, right? And all the deaths she’d watched alongside the Doctor, when they couldn’t save everyone, and all the bodies of people who they’d unwittingly allowed to die alone.

A second has passed by the time that the Doctor looks back at Yaz.

She’s made her way to the console, now, leaning against it with a practiced casualness that’s painfully obvious.

“When I was in high school, I ran away from home,” she says.

The Doctor says nothing. She just watches Yaz, and how she’s doing her best to not look back.

“I had a bagful of stuff. I don’t know why. Probably to reassure my parents that I’d be okay, or something. That I’d be alive and well, just… Elsewhere.” She snorts. “Not that it helped. My sister called the cops, and the policewoman who found me convinced me to not do it.”

“What, run away?” the Doctor asks, blinking.

Yaz looks at her, then. It’s a look that the Doctor is used to giving to other people; not to be directed at herself. She can recognise the shame, and the borderline of pity. The sympathy directed at the unfortunate soul who is soon to learn a painful truth, or to receive a twist in their sad little tale.

It’s never really intentional, but it makes the subject of that stare feel, quite suddenly, very, very small.

With a slow shake of her head, Yaz says, “Yeah, in a way.”

Maybe she won’t say it. Maybe Yaz will change the subject, and the Doctor can live on in blessed, purposeful ignorance.

“I wanted to die.”

Or maybe she will.

The Doctor has to take the time to blink. She does so slowly, and looking away, so that if a tear does escape, it can be denied.

“In high school?” she asks.

Yaz nods.

“How old are humans in high schools?” Then, just to put off hearing the response, she adds, “It’s just, high schools in space, they can be different. The Blizbeth people; they have it in a single day the year after they’re born. Of course, their days are a year long, and their years are about the length of a Hitchcock movie. They’re pretty weird about time, actually. I’m not sure why I thought they’d be a good example.”

“I was sixteen,” says Yaz. “Just going into Year Eleven.”

“And you’re twenty-one, now, right?” asks the Doctor.

At Yaz’s confirmation, she finds herself having to stumble to lean against the console, with her hands spread across the buttons and levers.

“Not even a decade,” she murmurs. “And I’ve known you for two years.”

“Since I was nineteen,” Yaz nods. “Three years later, and alive. Well, five years now.”

“There could’ve been a world without Yaz in it.”

By the Doctor’s side, Yaz hums. “But there isn’t. I went to counselling and therapy to help me cope. Got to skip ahead of the CAHMS waiting list ‘cause I was a _danger to myself_ , apparently.”

The Doctor whines a little at that, unintentionally, like a dog being kicked.

“If I hadn’t got help, I wouldn’t be here, with you, now,” explains Yaz. “I’d have hurt myself, and that would’ve hurt my family.” she breaks into a small smile. “It wouldn’t’ve hurt you. You didn’t know me.”

And, _oh_ ; doesn’t that just _sting_? It does, actually. But why? It’s just a fact. In a world without Yaz, the Doctor wouldn’t even realise that something was missing. She might have another companion from the police station. She might not have any at all. It might just be her and Graham and Ryan.

“It’s always better to get help,” Yaz murmurs. She lifts the Doctor’s hand from the console and intertwines their fingers, then squeezes. Just a little bit of pressure. Just enough to anchor the Doctor from all of those alternate universes where this isn’t happening.

“I’ve hurt people,” she says. “I’ve destroyed entire races in one go. I mean, granted, I’d justified them all to myself, and I’ll never stop feeling the guilt, but I still did it.”

Yaz doesn’t let go. She should let go.

She doesn’t.

“I’ve gloated and luxuriated in my power, at times. I’ve been needlessly cruel. You know those times when you don’t recognise me; when you’re scared of me?”

If the Doctor stops forcing that smile onto her face as she says this, she’ll cry. She might, anyway.

“Sometimes, that’s all I am. Vindictive, ruthless… Humans have a conscience; an internal understanding of morals, and right and wrong.” She pushes her free hand through her hair. “I have my human companions. When I’m alone, I have their memory.”

“But you still choose to do your best to do what’s right,” says Yaz.

“Sorry, did I skip over the part where I’ve committed genocide?”

The Doctor tries to snap the words out in anger, but Yaz still hasn’t let go. Instead, it comes off as mild irritation. Not really the kind of strength of emotion you’d want when you’re thinking about genocide.

Yaz asks, as though it’s that simple, “Did you enjoy it?”

“No! Yes. Kind of.” The Doctor lets out a groan. “When I thought I’d killed all the Daleks, I was… Happy. No, that’s not really the right word. Satisfied? I was glad they were dead, anyway.”

Yaz just looks faintly amused. “You’re worried about being bad for killing a species that specifically exists to kill every other species?”

“I had to kill the Time Lords, too.”

Still, she doesn’t let go.

“My own race. My own home planet. I’m willing to do anything for the safety of the universe, but even that feels like a lie, sometimes.” She laughs without a trace of humour. “Sometimes I think it’s just an excuse for a power trip.”

“It’s not,” Yaz tells her.

The Doctor shakes her head. “You don’t know me. What I’ve told you? I’ve only just scratched the surface. I’m thousands of years old, give or take a few billion where I was trapped in a cycle of endless deaths.”

“But you’re still here, telling me,” says Yaz. “You’re still trying to be a good person. You say your human companions are your conscience? Here I am.”

Once again, she squeezes the Doctor’s hand.

This time, the Doctor squeezes back.

**Author's Note:**

> "but, neelh, why did you mention the doctor accidentally pressing some buttons?" bc i was going to have a part where the doctor takes yaz to her newly-refucked home planet. they were so busy having emotions that the tardis was just "okay time to have the deepest bonding experience possible: a tour of your destroyed home planet" but it didn't fit in with the rest of this word vomit


End file.
